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MILLARD ROSEN 


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BIOGRAPHICAL 


SOROLLA, ae son ot humble par- 


ites sister, was Sasated by his bat upon the 
her’s side, Dojia Isabel Bastida, and her husband, 


manifested little inclination for his studies proper, 
_ though he revealed a stealthy and incorrigible craze 
_ for scrawling embryonic drawings in his copy-books, 
until, impressed by the precocious merit and persis- 
tence of this extra-pedagogic labor, one of his mas- 
ters was intelligent enough to overlook his inattention 


Lege 








to the tasks appointed him, and even made him sur- 
reptitious presents of material for the prosecution of 
his hobby. 

In course of time, since young Sorolla made no 
visible progress at his lessons, his uncle, who was by 
trade a locksmith, removed the boy from school and 
placed him in his workshop, while yet allowing him 
to attend some drawing-classes, held at a local school 
for artisans; and here his resolution and his talent 
swept off all the prizes; so that, on reaching fifteen 
years, he was permitted to renounce the locksmith’s 
shop and finally devote himself to studying art. 

He now became a student of the Academia de 
Bellas Artes of San Carlos, which is also at Valencia, 
and won, almost immediately, the triple prize for 
coloring, drawing from the model, and perspective. 
About this time, too, he received assistance from a 
philanthropic gentleman named Garcia (whose 
daughter, Dofia Clotilde, he subsequently married), 
and so was able to remain for several years at the 
academy. During these years he visited Madrid on 
three occasions, and exhibited, first of all, three 
paintings which aroused no curiosity, and afterward 
his earliest important work, namely, a canvas of 
large dimensions titled “The Second of May.” The 
second visit to the Spanish capital was longer than 


ce] 





the other two, and young Sorolla utilized it to his 
best advantage by copying the masterpieces of Velaz- 
quez and Ribera in the Prado Gallery. 

“The Second of May,”! which represents the 
desperate resistance of the Madrilefios to the French 


invading army, during the Spanish War of Inde- 


pendence, is by no means a flawless work, although 
the drawing is correct and spirited; nor is it even an 
unusually precocious effort for a painter who was 


_ more than twenty years of age. Yet it contained one 


striking innovation; for it was painted in the open 


air, Sorolla choosing for his natural and informal 


studio the arena of the spacious bull-ring of Valencia, 
where he enwreathed his models with dense smoke in 
scrupulous reconstitution of authentic scenes of war. 

In the same year (1884), another of his paintings 
won for him the scholarship offered by his native 
town for studying art in Italy. Accordingly, he re- 
paired to Rome and stayed there for some months, 
proceeding thence to Paris, and returning not long 
afterward to the Italian capital. However, at the 
exhibitions, held in Paris, of the works of Bastien- 
Lepage and Menzel, “Sorolla’s eyes were opened to 


*This painting is now in the Biblioteca-Museo Balaguer, 
founded with the expenditure of almost his whole fortune by 
the eminent Catalan poet, historian, and statesman, Victor 
Balaguer, at Villanueva y Geltri, a town in Catalufia. 


ro] 















aioe 


ee being’ effected in the his- 
ng”; and even after his return : 
s novel and ipso movement in 


hful and spontaneous realist of Valencia— 
wae of Goya and the fellow-citizen of 


ang religious painting titled “The Burial of the 
Saviour,” marked by his wonted excellence of color 
and of line, but not appreciably inspired by any 
sentiment of deep devotion. This work, upon its 
___ exhibition at Madrid in 1887, attracted some atten- 
q tion, but was not rewarded with a medal. Two other 
: paintings, also shown about this time, disclose the 
____ true direction of Sorolla’s sympathy. ‘The one, titled 
: “Un Boulevard de Paris,” somewhat impressionistic 
in the manner of Pissaro, depicts a busy evening 
scene outside a eee café. The other subject is a 


*“Yoaquin Sorolla y Bastida,” by Aarliaao de Beruete, pub- 
lished in “La Lectura,” January, 1901. 


Dir] 


sketch of a Parisian girl, treated in the simple, real- 
istic style of Bastien-Lepage, and therefore quite 
emancipated from the harsh eclecticism of the 
Roman school. 

While visiting Italy for the second time, Sorolla 
made a longish sojourn at Assisi, copying the old 
Italian masters, as well as doing original work subtly 
yet happily associated with the peasant-author of the 
“Saison d’Octobre.” During the next three years he 
painted, among a number of other works, “A Pro- 
cession at Burgos in the Sixteenth Century,” “After 
the Bath” (a life-sized female figure standing nude 
against a background of white marble), and the well- 
known “Otra Margarita” (“Another Marguerite’). 
This latter, now at St. Louis in America, represents 
a girl belonging to the humblest class, who has been 
“guilty of infanticide, and whom the Civil Guard con- 
vey as prisoner to receive or to perform her sentence. 
The scene is a third-class railway-wagon, bare, un- 
cushioned, comfortless—such as is still not obsolete 
in Spain. The head of this unhappy “Marguerite” 
is drooping -on her breast and, with her blanched, 
emaciated face and limp, dejected form, denotes the 
utmost depth of human woe. Her hands are bound, 
but a fold of her coarse shawl has partly fallen or 
been drawn across them. A bundle lies beside her on 


[12] 








the seat. Though it is painted out with care, this | 


work has scarcely any scope for detail. Nothing 
relieves its melancholy bareness save the spots upon 
the prisoner’s cheap print dress, and the pattern on 
the kerchief which contains her change of clothing. 

This pitiful and somber scene is treated with a 
poignant realism, yet with an equally eloquent re- 
straint. Emotion here is not obtruded, as in the case 
of mediocre genre: it is not ostentatious, but sug- 
gestive. Flawless in technical fidelity, the figure of 
the girl discloses that her moral weariness has over- 
come her physical. Her attitude of collapse proceeds, 
not from a muscular fatigue, as much as from an 
agony of remorse which has its fountain in her very 
soul. One of her two custodians marks her with a 
meditative and compassionate eye, puzzled, it may be, 
at the vagaries of the law devised by man, and specu- 
lating why its undivided wrath must here be visited 
upon the frail accomplice. 

Other important paintings executed by Sorolla at 
this time are named “The Happy Day,” “Kissing the 
Relic,” and “Blessing the Fishing-Boat.”’ The sub- 
jects of the latter two are indicated by their titles. A 
beautiful and touching moment is recorded in “The 
Happy Day.” A little fisher-girl, who has received 
her first Communion on this “happy morn,” kisses, 


[14] 











- 


on reaching home, the hand of her blind grand- 
father. The cottage-door is open, and the sunlight, 
streaming through, lavishes its pure caresses on the 
gossamer clouds of her communion-veil. 

In this or the succeeding year, two of Sorolla’s 
paintings were exhibited at the Salon. Their titles 
are, “The White-Slave Traffic’ and “The Fishing- 
Boat’s Return.”! The former is at present in Amer- 
ica; the latter (which had been classified ‘““Hors Con- 
cours”) was purchased for the Luxembourg. 

The subjects of these two great paintings offer an 
extraordinary contrast. The figures in the first are 
weary women, huddled together, dozing and lethar- 
gic, in a narrow, low-toned, somber railway carriage. 
But in the other work, the busy characters that plash 
and plunge about the water’s edge respire a very sur- 
feit of vitality; fishers and cattle bringing in the 
boat, enlivened and illuminated by the glorious sun- 
shine of Valencia. 

Between that period and the present day, we are 
confronted, in Sorolla’s art, with marvelous, well- 
nigh miraculous fecundity and quality, interpreting 
all aspects and developments of contemporary Spain 
—portraits of royal personages, nobles, commoners, 


* Sorolla’s “Beaching the Boat” (318) repeats the same majes- 
tic motive on a larger scale. 
[16] 





















of the artist’s wife and children, of statesmen, novel- 
ists, poets, scientists, or soldiers; landscape and pros- 
pects of the naked sea; the bright and tender joys 
of infant life, the playful scenes of boyhood and of 
girlhood, sorrows and problems and anxieties of 
later age, the sordid schemes of evil-doers, the stren- 
uous toilers of the deep, the simple cultivators of the 
soil, the village cares and pastimes of the peasantry. 

Such paintings are (to quote the titles of a very 
few), “Sewing the Sail,’”’? “The Beach of Valencia,” 
“A Scientific Experiment,” ‘The Raisin-Dressers,”’ 
“The Wounded Fisherman,” ‘A Sad Inheritance,” 
and “The Bath.” 

This latter represents the seaside at Valencia, 
“whose manifold charms this artist renders so felici- 
tously. A woman with her back to us unfolds a 
sheet, in which she is about to wrap a baby whom 
another woman holds. The little one is naked, and 
his limbs are stiffened by the cold sensation of his 
bath. Behind them is the sea, furrowed by fishing- 
boats with swollen sails, illuminated by the golden 
glory of a Spanish summer’s morning.” ? 

This jocund theme presents a striking contrast 


* Shown at Madrid, the Salon, Munich (Gold Medal), Vienna 
(Gold Medal), and the Paris Exhibition, where the artist was 
awarded the Grand Prix for his “Triste Herencia.” “Sewing 
the Sail” is now the property of the Venice Corporation. 

? Beruete, op. cit. 

[19] 


with “A Sad Inheritance.”! Here also is the fore- 
shore of Valencia, though it is specked and vivified 
ho longer by those dancing sails and animated figures. 
An air of sudden and depressing gloom seems to have 
overcrept the water and the sunshine. Even so quick 
are nature’s moods to echo back our own. For here 
are not the vigorous fisher-folk, able to work and 
strive, able to win their independent bread. Instead 
of such, we contemplate a score or so of imbecile or 
crippled boys, the inmates of a house of refuge for 
the cast-off children of depraved and unknown par- 
ents. The stern, robust, and noble figure of a priest, 
towering above this orphaned and pathetic gathering 
of frail humanity, extends a shielding arm over some 
two or three. Weighed down by helplessness and 
shame, these joyless creatures are not scurrying 
through the sand, or blithely plashing in the breakers. 
The gaiety of healthy boyhood is denied to them. 
Their drooping attitudes are inert, morose, and 
plaintive, while, as it were infected by the agony and 
pity of it all, the color of the sea is leaden, and the 
sun throws out no cheerful and invigorating ra- 
diance, but is merely sultry. 


*This picture hangs in the Sunday-school room of the 
Church of the ‘Ascension, Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street, New 
York City. It is kindly lent to the Hispanic Society of 
America as illustrating a distinct type of mastery, by the cour- 
tesy of its owner, John E. Berwind, Esq.,.and of the Rector, 
the Rev. Percy Stickney Grant. 


[207] 








I] 
CRITICAL 


HE march of art in modern Spain has coin- 

cided with her evolution generally. When, in 
the eighteenth century, the French or Bourbon kings 
were settled on the throne of Spain, the very life- 
breath of this nation emanated from Versailles; so 
that, in order to respire at all, the luckless Spaniards 
were compelled to simulate a sympathy with, and 
ape the manners of, a race whose character is radi- 
cally different from their own. Even their literature 
declined into a tawdry imitation of the French, re- 
placing natural and sparkling gems by dull and 
worthless paste; the typical, vital, and inimitable 
picaresque by nerveless and ephemeral travesties of 
Gallic forms and Gallic modes of feeling. Nor did 
the Spanish painters seek a less humiliating destiny. 
Born in a shallow, pleasure-loving, empty-headed, 
empty-hearted age, themselves devoid of natural 
ability, unstimulated by the spur of popular approval, 
of veracious and ennobling art, they made no effort 


[22] 





to shake off the cold, unedifying tutelage of Amiconi, 
Giaquinto, Mengs, and other leaders of the stilted 
academic school which in those days was tyrannizing 
over Europe. 

Such, of the so-called painters of that lamentable 
and degenerate time, were Ferro, and Gonzalez Ve- 
lazquez, Bayeu, Castillo, and Maella—names that 
have nearly perished with the mediocrities who bore 
them. Excepting one alone, the rest of Spanish ar- 
tists were no better. For in this sterile wilderness of 
weeds, one flower sprang up unchoked and reached 
its plenitude of beauty and maturity; one bright 
though solitary beacon cast its cheering glow across 
these gloomy decades of frivolity, corruption, and 
routine. 

Francisco Goya is the second in importance of all 
Spanish painters. His life and work alike require 
to be summed up in contradictory and complex terms. 
Sprung from the humblest class, the son of simple 
tillers of the soil, he grew to be a courtier and the 
pampered confidant of princes; and yet he never 
weeded out the primitive rudeness from his peasant 
temper. A coarse, uneducated man, his character, 
though greatly resolute in certain crises, was swayed 


* Goya was born on March 30 or 31, 1746, at Fuendetodos, a 
wretched village in a sparsely populated part of Aragon. 


[24] 





alternately by generous and by ignoble feeling. His 
sense of humor was inherently profound; but it ob- 
tained together with a rooted disbelief in human 
good, so that a mingled and discordant bitterness 
attends his very laughter. This taint of pessimism 
caused him to bestow his preferential notice on the 
uglier side of life—its elements of cowardice or 
fanaticism, of avarice, hypocrisy, or sensuality—and 
hence his characters, though admirably truthful in 
the main, seldom excite our pleasurable interest. AI- 
though at heart a democrat and revolutionary, and 
an unaffected hater of oppression and oppressive in- 
stitutions, such as the army, church, and aristocracy 
of Spain while these were influenced by the earlier 
Bourbons, he was, notwithstanding, from time to 
time, himself a sycophant or tyrant. His sturdy self- 
reliance frequently assumed the form of arrant and 
offensive selfishness. His intimacy with the elevated 
classes wrought him chiefly harm. Viewing their 
vices with a thinly veiled contempt, he lacked the 
moral stamina to guard himself from their good- 
nature and complete his life-work unsupported by 
their patronage. His correspondence, written in a 
tumid, egotistic style, confirms his greed of money 
and of fame; which greed, although his art is 
Spanish to the core, seduced his private conduct from 


C25] 


the patriotic path, and caused him to accept, with 
unbecoming haste, a salaried yet opprobrious com- 
mission from the French usurper.* 

His work embraces every class of subject—por- 
traiture and genre, pure landscape, mistitled render- 
ings of biblical history,? popular and rustic scenes, 
with or without a landscape setting, studies and 
sketches in the picaresco mood, uniting sarcasm with 
drollery. We note in him, as Pedro de Madrazo has 
declared, “the realism of Velazquez, the fantasy of 
Hogarth, the energy of Rembrandt, the delicacy of 
Titian, Veronese, and Watteau.’’ Powerless to create 
imaginative pictures of the future or the past, he 
viewed the life about him with an actual, robust re- 
gard, focusing his undistracted vision on the present 
only. His art, while yet conspicuously original, 
reveals throughout the influence of Velazquez; for 
though he did not imitate that mighty realist, he 
learned from him to look at nature with a clear, 
direct, truth-seeking eye. His love of brilliant colors, 
finely juxtaposed or blended with consummate taste, 
seems to have been suggested by Tiepolo; for while 

* Namely, to choose, in company with the painters Napoli and 
Maella, the representative collection of old masters which was 
removed to Paris by Napoleon. 


*I say mistitled, for all of Goya’s so-called mythological or 
sacred characters are faithful portraits of the people of his time. 


[ 26] 





the coloring of Velazquez is restrained and sad, 
Goya’s is the very soul of brilliancy. The sitters of 
Velazquez wear a look of indolence and boredom: 
Goya’s are pulsing with the very joie de la vie. His 
rendering of popular and rustic life has all the honest 
spontaneity of Teniers. His figures, even when 
roughly and precipitately drawn, possess immense 
vitality. His kings and queens, his courtiers and his 
peasants—all have “business and desire.” They 
move, and breathe, and speak to us. They are our 
intimates, and manifest their moment and this paint- 
er’s in the restless and romantic history of Spain; 
just as the figures of Velazquez manifest their co- 
existence with the ceremonious Hapsburg dynasty of 
melancholy, semi-moribund Castile. 

Both Goya and Velazquez are supremely repre- 
sentative of Spanish painting in a comprehensive 
sense, as well as of the social character of Spain 
precisely as it coincided with their several lives and 
life-work. Each of these two great masters has im- 
mortalized the Spanish century which was his own, 
and further, each was constitutionally suited to his 
native century. For the high-born painter of the two 
was the child of an aristocratic age, and the low-born 
painter was the child of a plebeian—or (if I may 
coin the word) plebeianized age. This happy fact 


[27] 


has caused them to bequeath to us the absolute his- 
toric truth; for Spain beneath the Hapsburg rule 
was eminently jealous and observant of her Visi- 
gothic arid blue-blooded origin, and Spain beneath 
the rule of the Bourbons was eminently parvenu and 
vulgar. It has been truthfully remarked that some- 
thing of the aristocrat breathes in the lowliest sitters 
of Velazquez. Conversely, something of the ignobly 
born breathes in the most exalted sitters of Goya. 

In these consecutive yet eminently different periods 
in the history of the Peninsula, we note a century of 
native and ancestral haughtiness and hidalguia, fol- 
lowed by a century of enervating foppery introduced 
from France. During the centuries of Hapsburg 
rule, it was regarded as a deep disgrace for even the 
humble classes to pursue a trade, and nearly all the 
trades in the Peninsula were exercised by foreigners, 
who consumed her energies just as the foreigner is 
consuming British energies to-day. 

Goya died and was buried at Bordeaux in 1828. 
He left no pupils worthy to be thus denominated; so 
that his influence, though destined to develop more 
and more as time rolled on, has only operated at a 
lengthy distance from his death. The cause of this 
was simple. Spain, in the opening quarter of the 
nineteenth century, was too distracted by internal 


[287 





strife, as well as by the foreigner’s tempestuous in- 
vasion of her soil, to turn her troubled eyes to art. 
When she recovered from the nightmare grasp of 
those calamities, she found herself the child of other 
times and other tendencies. A second period of 
French influence—that of David and his pompous 
sect—had now succeeded to the cold academism of 
the previous century. This newer influence, con- 
veyed across the Pyrenees by Juan Ribera, José Apa- 
ricio, and José de Madrazo—three Spanish painters 
whose inborn ability was spoiled by their Parisian 
training—was but a borrowed and reflected light at 
best, and rapidly flickered out in Spain, just as the 
parent light had flickered out in France. 

The romantic movement crossed the Spanish fron- 
tier toward the year 1835; yet its effect was unregen- 
erative here, because, as I have shown, it sprang from 
a factitious and delusive origin. Among the ardent 
and impressionable sons of Spain who gave their 
unconditional allegiance to this movement, were three 
unquestionably gifted poets—Zorrilla, Espronceda, 
and the Duke of Rivas; but since the talent and 
enthusiasm of her painters were by no means so pro- 
nounced, it acted on these latter far less powerfully. 
It has even been said that art in the Peninsula re- 
mained entirely unaffected by the French Roman- 


[30] 











tic School, much of whose influence is, however, 
noticeable in the work of Ferrant, Elbo, Esquivel, 
Tejeo, Jenaro Pérez Villaamil, and Gutiérrez de 
la Vega. : 

These men were very mediocre artists, but one of. 
them, Jenaro Pérez Villaamil, possessed a comical . 
and striking personality. He styled himself a land- 
scape-painter, and professed to teach this subject at 
the National Academy of Art. Nevertheless, as 
Martin Rico tells us in his entertaining Memoir, the 
members of Jenaro’s class were not allowed on any 
terms to stray into the open air. Each of them was 
immured within a small and feebly lighted room, to- 
gether with his requisite materials and a pile of. 
lithograph reproductions of the old Dutch masters. 
From these the student picked a fragment here and 
there, combined these elements as best he could into— 
the semblance of a drawing, applied a coat or two of 
color, and handed in the whole concoction as a nat- 
ural and harmonious landscape. 

The methods of Jenaro Pérez Villaamil nimself 
were no less singular. He seldom uttered any criti- 
cism to his flock, but sometimes took a brush and 
lighted up their lurid labors by the introduction of a 
fancy sunset. His own were executed in the follow- 
ing manner: gathering a lump of sepia, indigo, 


[32] 














orange, or some other color, on his palette-knife, he 
dabbed it on the center of his canvas; and from this 
blot, says Martin Rico, “there would immediately 
appear a range of mountains, a cascade, a forest, or a 
cavern full of brigands. He gave me, I remember, 
one of these productions. It purported to represent 
a cross upon a rock, such as is often met with on 
the roads of Spain, and underneath he placed the 
sinister description, “In this spot a man was mur- 
dered.’ ” 

A false romanticism of this kind begets a fashion 
for the futile painting of dead history. Such was 
the case toward this time in the Peninsula. The prin- 
cipal leader of this movement, which attained its 
crisis in or about the year 1860, was Federico Ma- 
drazo (1815-94), the son of José Madrazo, and 
influenced, through his father, by the Frenchman 
David. The young Madrazo’s style, while markedly 
eclectic as a whole, inclined at certain moments to the 
realism of Velazquez. Had he been born a little 
later, his work would have endured; but as it was, he 
and his age alike combined to neutralize each other 
in the world of art. Their baneful influence was in- 
herently and unavoidably reciprocal. 

Madrazo was an indefatigable and self-sacrificing 
teacher. Among his long array of pupils were Ca- 


[341] 





sado del Alisal (1831-86), Rosales (1836-73), and 
Martin Rico, who, though of an advanced age, is still 
living. This artist, who departed very widely from 
the theories and precepts of his master, is celebrated 
for his rendering of Spanish landscape, such as the 
snow-clad prospects of the Guadarrama, or romantic 
nooks and crannies of Castile or Andalusia. “Few 
painters,” says a Spanish critic, “have hitherto ex- 
pressed with such convincing power the effects of 
sunlight falling on our gardens or our towers, or on 
the scutcheons and the window-gratings of our an- 
cient palaces.” 

Casado was a dexterous painter of bad subjects; 
that is, of bygone history no longer serviceable to the 
eye of modern art. His best-known works, such as 
“The Battle of Bailén,” “The Comuneros of Castile,” 
“The Last Moments of King Ferdinand the Sum- 
moned,” or “The Cortes Taking the Oath at Cadiz,” 
fail to attract us at this day, not from deficient treat- 
ment, but because they represent no phase of history 
painted, as all history must be painted, from the ac- 
tual and contemporary scene. A similar judgment 
must be passed upon Rosales, author, among a quan- 
tity of other paintings, of “Hamlet and Ophelia,” 
“The Death of Lucretia,” “Isabella the Catholic 
Dictating her Will,” and “The Presenting of Don 


[35] 


Juan de Austria to the Emperor Charles the Fifth.” 
Rosales had a fine spontaneous gift for rendering 
light and shadow in the mass by leaving out unneces- 
sary detail ; but he died too early to mature the native 
talent which endowed him in a generous degree. 
Had he been spared awhile, the realistic and reac- 
tionary movement which was only just beginning at 
his death, would probably have reclaimed his vision 
from the vain pursuit of buried and forgotten ages 
to the profitable contemplation of a living world.' 
The reaction in favor of realism which began to 
show itself in Spain precisely at the moment when 
the painting of dead history was in a manifest de- 
cline, was principally due to the tuition and example 
of one single artist. This was the landscape-painter 
Charles Haes (1831-98), who, though a Belgian by 
birth, had made his lifelong residence in the Penin- 
sula. No field could have been better suited to his 
labor, since the Spaniards heretofore had represented 
natural scenery so very rarely that prior to the middle 
of the nineteenth century only four—Mazo, Collan- 
tes, Brambilla, and Montalvo—had practised land- 
*Fortuny does not need to be included with this group of 
Spanish painters. The character of his art is French, and 
though he was born in Catalufia, it has been justly said of him 


that he was “educated outside Spain, lived outside Spain, flour- 
ished outside Spain, and died outside Spain.” 


[36] 





se ff enor am eo wa 


scape-painting as a self-contained and definite branch 
of art. 

The classes of Charles Haes were opened at Ma- 
drid in 1856. As in the case of most reformers, the 
outset of his errand was ungrateful. His pupils, 
though attracted by his patient courtesy, laughed at 
his landscapes scrupulously painted from the open 
air, while they themselves, without a condescending 
glance at Nature’s self, composed, in the kaleidoscopic 
manner of Pérez Villaamil, “impossible flights of 
orange-colored scenery, studded with imaginary 
castles.” Yet this was only for a while. Presently 


*Collantes and Brambilla are of slight account as artists. 
Bartolomé Montalvo (1769-1846) was not much better. Collan- 
tes (1599-1656) was a pupil of Vicente Carducho, and painted 
figures and still-life, as well as pure landscape. 

Juan Bautista Martinez del Mazo, who merits a higher rank 
among the older Spanish masters than he actually holds, was 
born at Madrid toward the year 1600, and died in the same city 
in 1667. He was the favorite and most gifted pupil of Velaz- 
quez, whose daughter, Dofia Francisca, he married. In addition 
to his landscapes, which are relieved occasionally by the intro- 
duction of animated and attractive groups of figures, he copied 
Titian and Rubens in so masterly a manner that these copies 
have often been mistaken for, or wilfully passed off as, the 
originals. 

The Prado Gallery contains Mazo’s excellent “View of the 
City of Saragossa,” a work which is enlivened by a multitude of 
figures sitting or standing, and conversing. Probably some of 
these were executed or completed by Velazquez, who chanced 
to visit Saragossa precisely at the time when Mazo was engaged 


upon the painting. . 
[38] 






the manifest sincerity of Haes, together with the no 
less manifest and truthful power of his doctrine, won 
over a continually increasing section, both of his 
pupils and of the wider public. Work of his own, 
such as the noble prospects of the “Cerro Coronado” 
and the “Pejia de los Enamorados,” as well as that of 
two or three who studied under him, attracted much 
attention at the series of biennial exhibitions which 
had recently been organized in the capital of Spain. 
A genuine and deep-seated sympathy with realism 
declared itself in every phase of Spanish art. Even 
the painters of dead history were touched by it, and 
aimed at better coloring and better composition, or 
else, more wisely still, forsook their arid ground and 
struck aside into the fertile fields of portraiture and 
landscape. 

This was about the time when the Pre-Raphaelites 
in England and the Impressionists in France were 
almost simultaneously beginning to be known. Hap- 
pily for Spain, the fallacies of our British Brother- 
hood were never wafted to her shore. Not so, 
however, with Impressionism, which has affected 
Spanish painting in a sensible degree, though some- 
what locally. Toward the concluding quarter of the 
nineteenth century, the influence of the French plein- 
airiste group extended into Catalufia, where the re- 


[39] 


spective styles of Rousseau, Diaz, Millet, Courbet, 
and Corot were zealously reflected by the painters 
Baixeras, Planella, Pellicer, Mercadé, Sans, Fabrés, 
Urgell, and Vayreda. 

Nevertheless, this change was eminently for the 
good of the Peninsula. Hitherto the merest ap- 
panage of France, she now regained her own volition, 
and began to be once more herself. Sorolla, Gon- 
zalez Bilbao, Rusifiol, Meifren, Mir, and Pla among 
her painters; Blay, Benlliure, and Querol among her 
sculptors—these and many others are the virile 
artist-offspring of a hopeful and rejuvenated Spain, 
who cleared from before her eyes the mists of anti- 
quated prejudice, and newly looked about her unto 
life. Not only at Madrid, but in a nucleus of the 
provinces, and thence, by rapid and successive im- 
pulses, throughout the greater portion of the land, 
such artists, stimulated, like all other classes of the 
Spaniards, by this fortunate awakening, busied them- 
selves to render in a natural, unidealized, and un- 
academic form, the manifold customs and emotions 
of her laborer, artisan, and peasant people. The 
painters Fierros, Plasencia, Souto, Uria, Silvio Fer- 
nandez, Pradilla, and Martinez Abades in Galicia and 
Asturias; Moreno Carbonero, Blanco Coris, Ville- 
gas, and Garcia Ramos in Andalusia; Cebrian, Se- 


[40] 


nent, Albert, Mezquita, Leonar, and Amoros in 
Valencia—deserve the principal credit of this move- 
ment. So that, in modern Spanish art, the landscape 
and the rural or bucolic styles were twin productions 
of a little later than the middle of the nineteenth cen- 
tury, and were associated by a brotherly intimacy. 
Part of their character was assimilated from a for- 
eign source. The other part is traceable, through 
Goya and the general line of Spanish realism, to 
Velazquez. 

Thus there had come to pass, originating, at a 
lapse of more than half a century, from the blunt, 
uncompromising realism of Francisco Goya, a vig- 
orous, wide-reaching, and successful agitation to 
revive the style of rustic genre. Though not the first 
in literal priority, Sorolla is undoubtedly the first in 
rank and consequence of the initiators of this move- 
ment. His industry endowed their efforts with a 
vital and enduring force. His genius was the ori- 
flamme that led them on to victory. His art, at once 
original and national, assisted, by its technical and 
spiritual grandeur, to remove their need of foreign 
tutelage, fixing the proper middle-line between the 
riot of Impressionism and the lethargy of routine, 
reading the glorious nature-truth for good and all, 
and manifesting to the world innumerable excel- 


Dar] 


lencies of the scenery and customs of contemporary 
Spain. 

_ Sincerity and actuality and sympathy—here are 
the qualities which make Sorolla’s renderings of 
Spanish life at once so beautiful and so robust, 
establishing our belief that not only are they of vital 
interest now, but of a value which shall palpitate in 
far futurity. All painting that is truly great depends 
infallibly upon the interaction of two kinds of power 
in the artist. The one kind is the moral, intellectual, 
and emotional power resulting from sincerity and 
actuality and sympathy: the other is the manual and 
material power of technique. The power of the 
heart creates and is created by the power of the hand. 
Not otherwise have the privileged heart and hand 
combined to form and animate the art of Joaquin 
Sorolla. 

In the domain of art, sincerity, although related to, 
is not identical with sympathy. It is a less exalted 
gift, bearing a close affinity to conscientiousness. 
Many a painter is sincere, who is not also sympathetic. 
Even the sincerest seeker after truth may be mistaken 
in his quest. The form he finds may be conventional, 
supposititious truth, wearing the guise of truth by 
some impertinent misnomer. But sympathy points 
forward to the undivided truth; points to a vital 


[42] 





figure, not a shadow; not to artifice, but natural 
emotion. Duty alone may prompt sincerity, but sym- 
pathy in its genuine form is traceable to genius. 
True sympathy has more prevision than sincerity. 
Mere sincerity implies dependence on another; but 
thorough sympathy is strong enough to stand alone. 
And when, attended by technique and actuality, sin- 
cerity and sympathy combine, then the result is not a 
fractionary, latent, or inactive, but a perfect, potent, 
and amazingly creative genius. 

I copy in extenso Ruskin’s words on actuality in 
painting; which words, though undeservedly included 
with his indefensible defense of the Pre-Raphaelites, 
are in themselves closely expressive of the truth. 
“What do you at present mean,” he asked, “by his- 
torical painting? Nowadays, it means the endeavor- 
ing, by the power of imagination, to portray some 
historical event of past days. But in the middle 
ages, it meant representing the acts of their own 
days; and that is the only historical painting worth a 
straw. Of all the wastes of time and sense which 
modernism has invented—and they are many—none 
are so ridiculous as this endeavor to represent past 
history. What do you suppose our descendants will 
care for our imaginations of the events of former 
days? Suppose the Greeks, instead of representing 


[44] 











their own warriors as they fought at Marathon, had 
left us nothing but their imaginations of Egyptian 
battles ; and suppose the Italians, in like manner, in- 
stead of portraits of Can Grande and Dante, or of 
Leo the Tenth and Raphael, had left us nothing but 
imaginary portraits of Pericles and Miltiades? What 
fools we should have thought them! how bitterly we 
should have been provoked with their folly! And that 
is precisely what our descendants will feel towards 
us, so far as our grand historical and classical schools 
are concerned. What do we care, they will say, what 
those nineteenth-century people fancied about Greek 
and Roman history! If they had left us a few plain 
and rational sculptures and pictures of their own 
battles, and their own men, in their everyday dress, 
we should have thanked them. Well, but, you will 
say, we have left them portraits of our great men, 
and paintings of our great battles. Yes, you have in- 
deed, and that is the only historical painting that you 
either have, or can have; but you don’t call that his- 
torical painting. ... As you examine into the 
career of historical painting, you will be more and 
more struck with the fact I have this evening stated 
to you,—that none was ever truly great but that 
which represented the living forms and daily deeds 
of the people among whom it arose ;—that all precious 


[46] 





. “historical work records, not the past, but the 
present.” 

Spain is above all other lands the land of realists; 
that is, in art, of painters of the actual. From first 
to last the life-work of Velazquez, which consists of 
portraits, landscapes,’ genre, and renderings of so- 
called mythological or sacred subjects, is real and 
therefore actual. It is completely and consistently 
non-retrospective, non-archaic. All of it is truthfully 
to be defined as portraiture, using this term, not in the 
circumscribed and ordinary sense, but as it was 
pointed out by Bastien-Lepage, who wisely said, “I 
believe that everything in nature, even a tree, even 
still-life, should be treated as a portrait.” For so it 
is, a portrait; and all painting is, or should be, por- 
traiture. 

Velazquez had no speculation for the past. His 
eye and genius were in sympathy with his age alone. 
His only scope was portraiture. His canvases display 


* The landscapes and the landscape-backgrounds of Velazquez 
are not only sovereign and insuperable in technique, but abso- 
lutely sympathetic, actual, and unconventional. Together with 
a thousand other paintings by the older masters, they constitute 
a crushing refutation of that “irresponsible and dogmatic” 
phrase by Ruskin—“None before Turner had lifted the veil 
from the face of nature; the majesty of the hills and forests 
had received no interpretation, and the clouds passed unrecorded 
from the face of the heaven which they adorned, and of the 
earth to which they ministered.” 


[47] 


to us the manifold component characters of his cen- 
tury. His Christ and his Madonna, his A®sop and 
Menippus, his Mars, and Mercury, and Vulcan, are 
simply, and despite their fanciful appellations, Span- 
iards of his very time; not fictions simulated from 
past history, but facts proceeding from the native 
circumstances of his own. His Christ is not heroic 
and gigantic, in the muscular, mythologizing style of 
Michelangelo; not a conventional embodiment of 
virtue, but the actual figure of a man. 

Closely akin to actuality is swiftness. Protracted 
workmanship in painting violates the triple truth of 
light and shade and atmosphere. All beings and all 
things whose aspect, as our vision apprehends them, 
is effected by the vivifying influence of the sun or 
moon, change in that aspect from one fraction of 
each instant to the fraction following. Their con- 
stant state is not stagnation but vibration. Their 
symbol is a point and not a line. Therefore the 
painter needs to catch their infinite transitions with 
an infinite rapidity; to render, by the limited means 
at his command, unlimited variety; and, by accom- 
plishing the maximum of technical exactness with 
the minimum expenditure of time, by one endeavor 
to achieve a twofold conquest. 

In every artist of true capability, this power of 


[48] 


swiftness was existent at his birth, though further and 
assiduous discipline alone can strengthen him to seize 
and to retain those evanescent and elusive semblances 
in nature. The secret of all realism, all ‘“impression- 
ism” proper, is contained in this—the very same which 
is unfolded by the early realists in splendid and im- 
perious silence, and subsequently, in a clamorous and 
ostentatious fashion, by the modern French Impres- 
sionists. Sorolla, who proclaims it quietly and nobly 
in his painting, in our familiar talk assures me that 
its knowledge beat within him at all moments, just as 
rhythmical and constant as the beatings of his heart. 
“Tt came to me,” he says, “together with my earliest 
sympathy with nature. My studies in the open air 
cannot admit of lengthy execution. I feel that if I 
painted slowly, I positively could not paint at all.” 
All painters who have painted slowly have pro- 
duced their labor at a sacrifice of atmosphere and 
natural truth. The finest atmosphere in all the world 
of painting is the background of the “Las Meninas” 
of Velazquez, which is reproductive of a natural and 
accustomed depth of gloom. Examining this back- 
ground through a lens, we find Velazquez to have 
moved his brush, charged with thin color, in a swift 
and spacious sweep. The coating is diaphanous 
throughout. The very texture of the canvas is not 


[49)] 


smothered up, but utilized to convey the semblance of 
tenuity. 

Sympathy promotes and regulates the artist’s sense 
of value. Much error has been propagated in this 
matter of artistic values. “All things,’ protested 
Courbet, in reply to certain of his critics, “are of an 
equal value to the painter.” Here lurks a pseudo- 
truism. All things are not of equal value unto na- 
ture’s self. This is precisely where the painter must 
be able to discriminate. In nature and, by conse- 
quence, in art, the value of all objects is not constant, 
but fluctuating; not homogeneous, but diverse. All 
things, as Ruskin pointed out, are “coexistent and yet 
separate.” No absolute isolation is conceivable in 
nature. A spear, a plant, a tree, a piece of clothing— 
any object that you please—has its particular value, 
and again, that other value which accrues to it from 
casual or intended circumstances. Its incidental or 
premeditated neighborhood to other objects modifies 
these values by contributing to them other and con- 
tingent values. These supplementary and complex 
values, interacting with its very own, affect it as to 
form and color, history, locality, and even ethics. In 
“The Surrender of Breda,” by Velazquez, the row of 
lances have their quasi-isolated or particular value, 
yet affect, and are affected by, the episode of which 


[50] 


they are a factor. They intercept the sky, and in- 
fluence, and are influenced by, the shades and values 
of that sky. Again, these formidable weapons of 
Biscayan ash possess a martial and historic interest. 
Their shape and length denote a certain moment in 
the annals of their native country. Who shall in 
consequence pretend that, as they tremble in the 
hands of living and victorious soldiery, they have the 
same significance and value as a row of lances repre- 
sented all alone? 

Sympathy prompts the painter to discern and 
extricate these values that exist and subexist in na- 
ture. While yet his composition as to color, shape, 
and context must be nature’s own, his system must 
be happily though truthfully selective; must be appo- 
site and opportune, as well as natural. It is by no 
means unimportant whether his subjects meet our 
eye in such a disposition or in such another one; 
whether their moods, as he conveys them to our ken, 
be regular or fitful, grave or gay, serene or agitated. 
The robes of cardinals are red; but in one famous 
portrait such a robe accentuates the sanguin .;4 in- 
stincts of a certain cardinal whose ferocity upset the 
peace of nations. That robe contains at once a gen- 
eral and a special symbolism. Its color overspreads 
‘the character of the wearer in relation to a certain 


Csr] 


phase of history. So, both in nature and in art, the cir- 
cumstances which invest a person or a thing are often 
as significant as, or more significant than, that person 
or that thing considered in a state of quasi-isolation. 

Sympathy, which endows our thoughts and actions 
with a superadded life, also endows the painter’s can- 
vas with a superadded vital power. It makes him 
conscious of the soul, alike of persons and of things, 
as well as of their outer and apparent form. Unsym- 
pathetic painters are precluded from a perfect great- 
ness. For only sympathy is able to perceive the 
spiritual beauty in its actual and true relation to the 
carnal. The ugliness or beauty of a human being 
proceeds, not from the essence or the form alone, but 
from the subtle interaction of the two. This inner 
and this outer symmetry or ugliness are never disas- 
sociated. The relatively perfect human beauty is the 
union of both symmetries; the relatively perfect 
human ugliness, the union of both opposites of sym- 
metry. An outer symmetry may yet accompany a 
crooked soul, or else, as in the “Portrait of an Old 
Man with a Bulbous Nose,” by Ghirlandajo, a want 
of outer symmetry may be transfigured by a psychic 
sweetness—by the spiritual symmetry—into a pleas- 
ing semblance that is almost physically beautiful. It 
was remarked by Bastien-Lepage that “most of Hol- 


[52] 











AQ 


bein’s heads are not beautiful in the plastic sense of 
the word, but none the less they are singularly inter- 
esting. For, underneath their very ugliness and 
vulgarity, we find the thought and feeling that glori- 
fies everything. The peasant, he, too, has his fashion 
of being sad or joyous, of feeling and of thinking. 
It is that particular fashion which we must try to 
discover. When you have found out and represented 
that, it matters little if your personages have irregular 
features, clumsy manners, and coarse hands. They 
cannot fail to be beautiful because they will be living 
and thinking beings. The patient, conscientious study 
of nature—that is the only thing worth having.” 
The love of truth is normally inherent in mankind; 
but few of us—alas, how very few—are able to dis- 
tinguish her unaided. For truth is not self-evident, 
as most of us believe, but complex and recondite. 
Prejudice and routine have largely veiled her from 
our eyes. Our vision and our reasoning alike partake 
of this deficiency. Speaking of painters in particular, 
“It is most difficult,” said Ruskin, “and worthy of the 
greatest men’s greatest effort, to render, as it should 
be rendered, the simplest of the natural features of 
the earth.” And not alone such features, but every- 
thing that is a fact. So that the great historian, poet, 
novelist, or philosopher in his writings, the great 


[54] 





sculptor in his statues, and the great painter in his 
canvases, make us acquainted with the truth by guid- 
ing us into her temple. Their sympathy evokes our 
own. Their genius wakes and fortifies our dormant 
sensibility. Chosen high-priests of nature in them- 
selves, their ministry and devotion elevate us also into 
conscious and devoted worshipers. 

In spite of all its faults, this age of ours is predis- 
posed to search whole-heartedly for truth. Yet we 
are spoiled by one infirmity. Nerves are the cause of 
nearly all our recent disabilities. Such is our inborn 
aim, and yet our nerves resist and thwart us in the 
consummation of this aim. For all our aspirations 
and investigations after truth, we are a generation 
that is preyed upon by nervous weakness. As if in 
our infirm belief we soared too far above the common 
earth to discipline our earthly constitution, our poli- 
tics and state-craft, our morals and our acts, are 
handicapped by neurasthenia. Problems of sovereign 
issue, such as the social or political relations of the 
woman to the man, of capital to labor, wealth to pov- 
erty, inventive effort to executive, the veto of the 
state upon intemperance, or ignorance, or sloth— 
engage and interest us hourly. It is our honest and 
collective aim to grapple with these arduous and am- 
bitious problems; but then, like the maleficent sprite 


[55] 


escaping from Pandora’s fabled casket, the demon of 
our nerves assails us with invisible shafts and robs us 
of our victory. 

Among the past or present victims of this demon 
we must count the masters and disciples of Pre-Ra- 
phaelitism one and all, and nearly all the French 
Impressionists. Their nature is not healthy, neither 
is their painting. “In art,” observed the Spaniard 
Ganivet, “the logical is always superior to the alle- 
gorical.” This truth was veiled from the Pre-Ra- 
phaelites. Their view of life was either fanciful and 
meaningless, or retrospective; and it is obvious that, 
when we seek to disinter the past, we work with bor- 
rowed eyes and ears. “Every great man,” said Rus- 
kin, in a lucid and deliberate passage of his writings, 
“paints what he sees or did see, his greatness being 
indeed little else than his intense sense of fact.” 
Therefore Pre-Raphaelistic painting has no sense of 
fact; since, for the sympathetic painter, every fact is 
of his moment, visible and actual. 

A healthy sympathy with art is not to be discovered 
in our medievalizing Brotherhood, or (in the large 
majority of cases) in the prestidigitation of impres- 
sionizing Frenchmen. Yet good example may create 
itself out of the ashes of the evil. Painting in Eng- 
land has advanced but lamely from the ruins of Pre- 


[567] 

















Raphaelitism toward a better goal; while, on the other 
hand, in France, the saner masters of Impressionism 
—notably Renoir, Pissaro, Sisley, and Degas—have 
opportunely redirected modern art toward those 
primitive and reticent “Impressionists” who led their 
privileged and prolific lives before the troubled days 
of modern neurasthenia. 

No prey to nervous weakness is Sorolla; neither 
was Bastien-Lepage. There is a splendid sympathy 
between these two—between the peasant-realist of 
modern France and the peasant-realist of modern 
Spain. I make no effort to compare them critically. 
It is a dangerous and often sterile labor, with respect 
to art, to pry about in order to determine influences. 
Influence in art is to a vast extent fortuitous. Few 
painters can themselves explain its origin. “I have 
no fixed rules and no particular method,” pleaded 
Jules Bastien-Lepage; “I paint things just as I see 
them, sometimes in one fashion, sometimes in an- 
other, and afterward J hear people say that they are 
like Rembrandt or like Clouet.’ Influence,in art is 
conscious, or unconscious, or subconscious. Whoshall, 
in any given case, definitively separate the three? 
A chance inspection of a print or drawing brought by 
Fortune’s fingers from Japan, may have affected the 
entire work of Whistler, and hence, through Whis- 


[59] 


tler, much, or possibly the whole, of recent art. 
Strong in the mass, the web of life is spun from 
infinitely tiny strands. A gradual or abrupt accretion 
of coincidences is the groundwork of all progress; 
and what was yesterday an isolated accident, to-day is 
an absorbing purpose. 

And so, to state the simple truth, Joaquin Sorolla 
and Jules Bastien-Lepage are just two parallel ex- 
amples of extraordinary peasant-genius. Their early 
circumstances were the same. We read of Bastien- 
Lepage, “His parents were poor, and he had to make 
his own way in the world.” Again, “At home or at 
school, he was always drawing, on the margin of his 
lesson-books, on the doors and walls.”’ And again, 
“His native courage and good spirits, together with 
that invincible tenacity of purpose which was so 
marked a feature of his character, stood him in good 
stead, and helped him through the trials and difficul- 
ties of the next few years.” These very sentences are 
applicable to Sorolla. Both of these men unite a 
peasant’s vision with immense interpretative genius. 
They are at once sincere and actual, profoundly sym- 
pathetic, mighty masters of technique. Their view is 
not deflected by the neurasthenia of overculture. 
They do not strain to found a blatant sect or school, 
to disinter past mannerisms, to make themselves con- 


[60] 











spicuous by a novel idiocrasy; but to be Nature’s 
servitors alone, and by this sacrifice to minister to her 
glory. 

They are apart from, and superior to, the modern 
French “Impressionists.” Their art is healthier, 
more spontaneous, and more earnest. They are the 
older-fashioned and the purer species of Impression- 
-ist—that is, the simple realist. They are a new 
Teniers, a new Velazquez, a new Goya, a new Con- 
stable. They may appear, to the careless critic, to be 
innovators, but are positive descendants and direct 
continuators of an ancient and illustrious artist-line. 
And why, apart from by-considerations of technique, 
have they accomplished so unusual a triumph? To 
an immense extent, because the soundness of their 
peasant-nerves does not affect their retina adversely. 
They.do not speculate or worry, but they see. Theirs 
is the peasant-influence that our modern world of art 
most needed. They are the very best corrective of 
our physical and social neurasthenia. 

“In order to express,” says Beruete, “the subtle yet 
intense vibrations of the sunlight, Sorolla sometimes 
uses crisp, small touches of the brush, though not in 
the extravagant fashion of the French Impressionists. 
He saw and speedily absorbed all that is healthy in 
the various phases of Impressionism; and so, in paint- 


[627] 








in all cases of consummate art, the conscious effort 
and the conscious pains were long precedent and pre- 
paratory to the fact, and therefore, when the latter 
stands before us in a perfect shape, the effort is, or 
seems to have become, subsensible. 

An “infinite power of taking pains,’ 
trating their effect in vast achievements which burst 
forth on our bewildered and delighted gaze as though 
they were unstudied and spontaneous, occurs but 


’ 


and concen- 


twice or thrice in any century. Nature, as it were, 
invests these rarely patient and perceptive characters 
with her facility and sureness, her puissance and fe- 
cundity. Such, as an artist, is Sorolla. His vision 
and his touch—“une main aussi prompte a peindre 
que le regard a percevoir’’—identify their purpose to 
convey the pure interpretation of the truth. A spirit 
of herculean effort is absorbed into his very being, 
beating so close and constant that it is assimilated 
with a facile yet emotive spontaneity. “Il peint aussi 
naturellement qu’il parle, sans méme se douter qu’il 
en puisse étre autrement et que le tour de force per- 
pétuel ne soit pas l’habitude de tout peintre.” The 
difficult appears to succumb before the practice of 
surmounting difficulty. He is unconscious, through 
association, of the terrors of technique. The world 
exists for him twice over. He is at once the eye and 


[667 

















ing landscape, he banishes from his palette black or 
blackish, non-transparent colors, such as were for- 
merly in vogue for rendering shadow. But, on the 
other hand, his canvases contain a great variety of 
blues and violets balanced and juxtaposed with reds 
and yellows. These, and the skilful use of white, pro- 
vide him with a color-scheme of great simplicity, 
originality, and beauty.” 

A countryman of the Impressionists confirms this 
eulogy. Camille Mauclair has stated of Sorolla’s 
painting,— “On y trouve, a l’analyse, des qualités so- 
lides, une assise, un savoir, que bien peu d’impressio- 
nistes ont pu montrer dans leur art captivant mais 
vacillant, ot la vibration chromatique trop souvent 
dévore les formes et détruit la stabilité de l’architec- 
ture du sol.’”’ He also comments on the swiftness of 
Sorolla’s workmanship, of which he says, “L’éclat 
subit dissimule la longue préparation.” The lifelong 
preparation. ‘The truth is better indicated here than 
in this other sentence: “No great thing was ever done 
by great effort: a great thing can only be done by a 
great man, and he does it without effort.” These 
latter words by Ruskin point a superficial aspect of 
the truth. Nothing at all in this world is accomplished 
without effort; and in proportion as the “thing”’ is 
worthy of achievement, so is the effort greater. But, 


[657] 


hand of Nature, and his own. Although the strife 
takes place, it seems no longer arduous to strive; and 
yet infallibly to strive is to obtain. 

Therefore no subject that exists in life, or in life’s 
mirror, art, is too ambitious for Sorolla. Like an 
athlete outstripping every other in a race, he is un- 
faltering, unflagging, and supreme. He has no false 
direction to retrace, nothing whatever to unlearn; but 
has advanced from mastering slighter things to 
mastering the very greatest. His method is the 
undisguised and naked truth. Disdaining nugatory 
pointillism and the petulant procédé de la tache, he 
practises no legerdemain of daubs and dashes. Where 
color should be applied thinly, he applies it thinly, and 
where densely, densely; rendering, as it were, the 
natural technique of nature. What color is in actual 
life, such is Sorolla’s coloring; and history, as she 
breathes to-day, will call to other generations from 
his canvas. 

Children exulting in their pastime, girls with their 
skipping-rope, nude boys disporting in the sea, grown 
people of all ranks and occupations, from kings and 
queens in palaces to peasants pressing raisins ina shed, 
nobles and caballeros of unfurrowed countenance and 
creaseless clothing, ragged and rugged fishers, tanned 
to an equal brownness with their nets, the acts and the 


[687 











81 


emotions of the coast or countryside, the placid har- 
vest of the fields or perilous harvest of the deep, 
cattle of majestic stride that beach the boats or pas- 
ture in the glebe, subtle effects of air and light, the 
luminous gleam that filters through a sheet, a parasol, 
or a sail, the swaying of grass or boughs or draperies 
in the wind, zephyrs that wanton in a woman’s hair 
or in the plumy foliage, the sprouting or declining 
leaves, umbrageous depths of forest, the stillness of 
still water, bellowing breakers, ripples that whisper 
over and caress the sand—Sorolla’s genius has ex- 
pressed them every one. “All of them pure veracities, 
therefore immortal.” His loving industry confirmed 
and multiplied that genius. His diligent and loyal 
servitude to Nature reaped its due reward. Now she 
has elevated him beside herself, and crowns him with 
her own felicity. 

Pre-Raphaelitism, medievalism, pointillism, chroma- 
tism ; wilful and capricious lookings back or lookings 
forward; theory upon theory; fad upon fad—should 
all these sickly innovations be committed to the tomb, 
their loss will not affect us vitally. But alas for art 
when man should finally discard his interest in the life 
that is around, essential to, and interwoven with him- 
self; when he should finally avert his eyes from fact 
to superstition; should hold in less than paramount 


[70] 

















esteem the shape and soul of men and things, not as 
they might have been before, or may be after him, but 
as they bear him company between the actual limits 
of his birth and death. For this—the earnest, undi- 
vided study of his days alone—alone can yield him an 
approximated knowledge of the perfect truth; a 
noble privilege in answer to a noble quest; a triumph 
worthy to be chronicled by Progress on the purest 
and most lasting table of her golden archives. 


LEONARD WILLIAMS. 


[721 


CATALOGUE 





I. HIS MAJESTY ALFONSO XIII, KING OF SPAIN 


(IN UNIFORM OF HUSSARS) 


II. HIS MAJESTY ALFONSO XIII, KING OF SPAIN 


(IN UNIFORM OF ARTILLERY ) 


Ill. HER.MAJESTY VICTORIA EUGENIA CRISTINA, 
QUEEN OF SPAIN 


IV. HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF ASTU- 
RIAS 


V. HER ROYAL HIGHNESS DONA YSABEL DE 
BORBON, INFANTA OF SPAIN 


VI. HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS HENRY 
OF BATTENBERG 




















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[AJESTY ALFONSO XIII, KING OF SPAIN 


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EUGENIA CRISTINA, QUEEN OF SPAIN 














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_HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF ASTURIAS 


Siete-Picos, Guadarrama 
Seven-Peaks, Guadarrama Mts. 
The mountain so-called, in the province of Madrid, 
is about 7160 ft. high. 


Covachuelas, Toledo 
Covachuelas, Toledo 


Covachuelas, “Little Caves,” is the most northern 
suburb of Toledo. 


Las Pedrizas, Pardo 


Las Pedrizas, Pardo 

Pedriza, “Stony Tract,” “Stone Fence.” El Pardo, 
a little town of 1800 inhabitants, 40 minutes by 
tramway north from Madrid, in a royal park 36 
miles in circumference. 


Sefior Gomar 
A distinguished landscape-painter 


El Torneo, Pardo 
El Torneo, Pardo 
Torneo, “jousting-place ” 


Una calle de Toledo 
A Toledo street 


C85] 





Io 


1 


12 


Vista del Torneo 


View from El Torneo 


Murallas de Segovia 
Walls of Segovia 
“Segovia is an unmatched picture of the Middle 
Ages. You read its history on the old city-walls 
with their eighty-three towers.” —A. Gallenga. 


Convento del Parral, Segovia 
Convent of El Parral, Segovia 


. Parral, “Vine-Arbor.” The now suppressed monas- 


tery is across the Eresma, to the north of Segovia. 


Alrededores de Segovia 


Environs of Segovia 


Reflejos del Cabo, Javea 
Reflections from the Cape, Javea 
Javea, a town of 6700 inhabitants, on the Jalon, 45 
_miles south of Valencia. The cape is Cabo de San 
Antonio. . 


El Clamores, Segovia 
The Clamores, Segovia 
Segovia is perched on a rocky hill, about 220: it. 
high, between two small streams, the Eresma, 
north, and the Clamores, south, which join to the 
west below the Alcazar. 


[87] 





13 


14 


15 


16 


17 


18 


Rocas del Cabo, Javea 
Rocks of the Cape, Javea 


Alqueria, Alcira 
Farm-house, Alcira 
Alcira is a town of 20,500 inhabitants, 23 miles 
south of Valencia. It has many palms and orange- 
trees. 


Maria en Biarritz 
Maria at Biarritz / 
Sefiorita Dofia Maria Sorolla 


Sombra del Puente Alcantara, Toledo 
Shadow of the Alcantara Bridge, Toledo 
This bridge at the northeast angle of the city has 
one large and one smaller arch. It is of Moorish 
origin (Arab. al kantara=bridge). 


Castillo de San Servando, Toledo 
On the heights on the left bank of the Tagus are 
the ruins of the Castle of San Servando, erected 
by Alfonso VI (1072-1109) to protect the convent 


of that name and the city, and renewed by Alfonso 
VIII (1158-1214). 


Dr. Decret 


An eminent physician 


[89] 








EO 


20 


21 


22 


23 


24 


25. 


Puente de Alcantara, Toledo 
Alcantara Bridge, Toledo 


La Selva, Granja 
The Forest, La Granja 
In 1719 Philip V purchased the granja, “grange,” 
of the Hieronymite monks, seven miles southeast 
of Segovia and began to construct the chateau and 
gardens named La Granja. 


Rio de las Truchas, Granja 
Trout-stream, La Granja 


Patio de las Danzas, Alcazar, Sevilla 
Court of the Dances, Alcazar, Seville 
The Alcazar, the palace of the Moorish kings, has 
been the residence of the Spanish sovereigns since 
the capture of the city by St. Ferdinand in 1248. 


Adelfas 


Rose-bay trees 


Cafiada, Asturias 
Glen, Asturias 


Pabellon de Carlos V, Sevilla 
Pavilion of Charles V (Charles I of Spain), Seville 


[or] 

















27 
28 
29 
30 
31 
32 
33 


34 


Puente de San Martin, Toledo 
St. Martin’s Bridge, Toledo 


Naranjos 
Orange-trees 


Cordeleros 
Rope-makers 


Sefior Franzen 
The photographer 


Rocas del Faro, Biarritz 
Rocks at the lighthouse, Biarritz 


Puente de San Martin, Toledo 
St. Martin’s Bridge, Toledo 


Pescadora valenciana 
Valencian fisherwoman 


Camino de San Esteban, Asturias 


Road of San Esteban, Asturias 


Estanque del Alcazar, Sevilla 


Basin in the Alcazar, Seville 


[93] 





35 


Se 


40 


4I 


43 


Puerto de Valencia 
Harbor of Valencia 


Amontonando el heno, Asturias 
Haymaking, Asturias 


Casa del Greco, Toledo 
House of “El Greco,” Toledo 
Domingo Theotocdpuli, called “El Greco” (1548- 
1625) 


Maria con sombrero negro 
Maria with black hat 
Sefiorita Dofia Maria Sorolla 


Torre de entrada en Toledo 
Tower of entrance, Toledo 


Las Covachuelas, Toledo 


' (See No. 2) 


Rocas, Javea 
Rocks, Javea 
(See No. 11) 


Camino de los Alijares, Toledo 
Road of the Alijares, “Stony Ground,” Toledo 


Familia segoviana 
Segovian family 


[95] 





45 


46 


47 


49 


50 


5! 


52 


53 


Escaldando uva, Javea 
Scalding grapes 
(See No. 11) 


Joaquin 
Sefior D. Joaquin Sorolla 


Elena 
Helen 
Sefiorita Dofia Elena Sorolla 


El Grutesco, Alcazar, Sevilla 


“El Grutesco” 


Playa de Valencia 


Beach of Valencia 


Velas a secar, Valencia 
Sails drying 


Naranjo 


Orange-tree 


Nifio con la barquita 
Little boy with toy boat 


Viejo pescador valenciano 
Old Valencian fisherman 


Barcas de pesca 
Fishing-boats 


C97] 





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54 


55 


56 


57 


58 


59 


Puerto de Valencia 
Harbor of Valencia 


E] beso 
The kiss 


Nifio sobre una roca, Javea 
Little boy on a rock 


Bao de la Reina, Valsain 
The Queen’s Beam, Valsain 
Valsain, an old and neglected hunting-chateau, two 
miles from La Granja, built by Philip II and 
burned in the reign of Charles II. 


Escalera del Palacio, Granja 
Staircase of the Palace, La Granja 


Elena en el Pardo 
Helen at El Pardo 


Fuente de los Caballos, Granja 

Fountain of the Horses, La Granja _ ; 

The fountains of La Granja are superior to those 
of Versailles. They were mainly made in 1727 by 
Isabella Farnese as a surprise for her husband 
Philip V, on his return after a long absence. He 
said: “It has cost me three millions and has amused 
me three minutes.” The water is supplied by an 
artificial lake, El Mar, 4100 ft. above the sea. 


[99] 








61 


62 


65 


66 


67 


68 


Otono, Granja 
Autumn, La Granja 


Maria pintando, Pardo 
Maria painting, Pardo 


Fuente de la Selva, Granja 
Fountain of the Forest, La Granja 


Fuente de Neptuno, Granja 
Fountain of Neptune, La Granja 


Huerto de naranjos, Valencia 
Orange-grove, Valencia 


Francisqueta, Valencia 
Fanny, Valencia 


Esperando la pesca, Valencia 
Waiting for the fish, Valencia 


Recogiendo la vela, Valencia 
Taking in the sail, Valencia 


Regreso de la pesca, Valencia 
Return from fishing, Valencia 


[ 1027] 




















70 


71 


72 


73 


74 


75 


76 


77 


Pescadores de quisquillas, Valencia 


Crayfishers, Valencia 


Nadador, Javea 
Swimmer, Javea 


Elena entre rosas 
Helen among roses 


Idilio 
Idyl 


Senor D. Vicente Blasco Ibafiez 
The eminent novelist 


Arbol amarillo, Granja 
Yellow tree, La Granja 


El ciego de Toledo 
Blind man of Toledo 


Pescadora con su hijo, Valencia 
Fisherwoman with her son, Valencia 


El bafio, Granja 
The bath, La Granja 


[ 104] 








79 


SO 


SI 


82 


85 


86 


87 


Cosiendo la vela, Valencia 
Sewing the sail, Valencia 


Buscando cangrejos, Javea 
Looking for crabs, Javea 


Maria, Granja 
Maria, La Granja 


Joaquin y su perro 
Joaquin and his dog 


Sobre la arena 
Upon the sand 


Pescadoras valencianas 
Valencian fisherwomen 


Sefiora de Sorolla (blanco 
Sefiora de Sorolla in white 


=", 


A la orilla del mar, Valencia 
At the sea-shore, Valencia 


Valenciana 
Valencian woman 


[ 106] 





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ear oe SR Beg SR 


88 


OI 


Q2 


93 


94 


95 


En los jardines de la Granja 
In the Gardens of La Granja 
The Gardens of La Granja, laid out by the French 
landscape-gardener, Boutelet, cover 350 acres. 


Viejo castellano 
Old Castilian 


Excelentisimo 


Sefior Marqués D. Estanislao de Urquijo 
Banker and statesman 


Hija de pescador, Valencia 


Fisherman’s daughter, Valencia 


Elena y sus mufiecas 
Helen and her dolls 


Mis hijos 
My children 


Nadadores 


Swimmers 


Baja mar (Elena en Biarritz) 
Low tide (Helen at Biarritz) 


Componiendo redes 
Mending nets 


[ 108 7] 








97 El bafio, Javea 
The bath, Javea 


98 EI bajio, Javea 


99 Encajonando pasa 
Boxing raisins 


100 Puente de la Selva, Granja 
Forest Bridge, La Granja 


101 Vista del Palacio, Granja 
View of the Palace, La Granja 


102 Vuelta dela pesca, Valencia 
Return from fishing, Valencia 


103 Al bafio, Valencia 
At the bath, Valencia 


104 Nifia con lazo azul, Valencia 
Little girl with blue ribbon, Valencia 


105 Maria enel puerto de Javea 
Maria, at the harbor of Javea 


[ 110] 





106 Instantanea, Biarritz 
Instantaneous, Biarritz 


107 Nifio entre espumas, Javea 
Boy among breakers, Javea 


108 Jardin del Alcazar, Sevilla 


Garden of the Alcazar, Seville 


zog Camino de adelfas, Valencia 
Rose-bay road, Valencia 


~a10 Maria y su abuela 
Maria and her grandmother 


tit Malvarrosa, Valencia 
Malvarrosa Beach, Valencia 


a12 Huerta de Valencia 
The Huerta or “Garden” of Valencia 


113 Jardin del Alcazar, Sevilla 
Garden of the Alcazar, Seville 


114 Jardin del Alcazar, Sevilla 
[112] 











115 


116 


117 
118 
119 
120 


I2I 


i122 


La Giralda, Sevilla 


This tower, originally the minaret of the principal 
mosque, was erected 1184-96 by the architect 
Jabir. It is 45 ft. sq., has walls 8 ft. thick and was 
at first 230 it. high. In 1568 the cathedral chapter 
commissioned Hernan Ruiz to build the upper sec- 
tion. The Giraldillo or. vane is 305 ft. above the. 
ground. 


Palacio de Carlos V, Sevilla 
Palace of Charles V, Seville 


Puerto de Valencia 
Harbor of Valencia 


Marqueés de la Vega-Ynclan 


Puerto de Valencia 
Harbor of Valencia 


Al agua, Valencia 
At the water 


Casa de la Huerta, Valencia 
House in the “Huerta,” Valencia 


Jardin de la playa, Valencia 


Beach garden, Valencia 


[ra] 


167% 





123 


124 


127" 


128 


129. 


130 


131 


132 


Huerta de Valencia 
“Huerta” of Valencia 


Jardin del Alcazar, Sevilla 


Garden of the Alcazar, Seville 


Asturias 
Asturias 


_ San Sebastian 


San Sebastian 


Puerto viejo, Biarritz 
Old harbor, Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 


Beach of Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 
[1167] 


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Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 


La Concha, San Sebastian 


San Sebastian, the summer residence of the royal 
family, is at the south base of the Monte Orgull, 
a rocky island now connected with the main land, 


[1187] 




















154 


155 


and on alluvial ground between the mouth of the 
Urumea on the east and the bay of La Concha, 
“The Shell,” on the west. 


Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 
Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Biarritz 


Playa de Valencia 
[ 120] 











156 


157 


159 


160 


161 


162 


165 


Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Puerto de San Sebastian 
Puerto de San Sebastian 
Playa de Valencia 


Pasajes 

The beautiful and almost land-locked Bay of 
Pasajes, which resembles an Alpine lake. . The 
Basque whaling-port from the 16th to the 18th cen- 
tury. From it Lafayette sailed for America in 


1776. 
Puerto de San Sebastian 
La Concha, San Sebastian 
La Concha, San Sebastian 


Puerto de Pasajes 


[ 122] 








166 Playa de Valencia 
167. Playa de Valencia 
168 Playa de Valencia 
169 Playa de Valencia 


170 Playa de Valencia 
171 Playa de Valencia 
172 Playa de Valencia 
173 Playa de Valencia 
174 Playa de Valencia 
175 Playa de Valencia 
176 Playa de Valencia 


177 Playa de Valencia 
[124 ] 





178 Cabo de San Antonio, Javea 


Cape San Antonio, Javea 
179 Galicia 


180 Cosiendo la vela 
Sewing the sail 


181 Adormideras 
Poppies 


182 Playa de Valencia 


183 Malvarrosa 
Malvarrosa Beach, Valencia 


184 Puerto de San Sebastian 


185 Playa de Valencia 


186 Locutorio 
“Locutory,” in convents a place for the reception 
of visitors. 


187 Playa de Valencia 
[ 126°] 

















188 


189 


190 


IQI 


192 
193 
194 
195 
196 
197 


198 


Playa de Valencia 


Cabo de San Antonio, Javea 
Cape San Antonio, Javea 


Playa de Valencia 


Adelfas 
Rose-bays 


Playa de Valencia 

La Concha, San Sebastian 
Playa de Valencia. 

Playa de Valencia 

Playa de Valencia 
Biarritz 


Biarritz 


[ 128] 








PRLS SII Te 


199 


“200 


201 © 


202 
203 
204 
205 


206 


207 


208 


Segovia 
Asturias 


Versalles 
Versailles 


Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


Patio del Cabafial 
Court of the Cabajial 
In the season (mid-June to October) tramways rum 
from Valencia to the north through El Cabafial, 
“Huts,” to the bathing-establishment, Las Arenas. 


En el rio 
In the river 


Puerto de Valencia 


[130] 














209 
210 
211 
212 
213 


214 
23 


216 


217 
218 


219 


Playa de Valencia 
Puerto de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


Malvas reales 
Royal mallows 


Los geranios 
Geraniums 


Altar de San Vicente, Valencia 


Altar of St. Vincent Ferrer in the house in which 
he was born, at Valencia, Jan. 23, 1355 or 1357. He 
died in 1419. 


Playa de Valencia 
Puerto de Avilés 


Playa de Valencia 
[132] 




















220 


221° 


222 


227 
228 


229 


230 


Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


Mercado de Leon 
Market of Leén 


Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


Playa de Valencia 


Playa de Valencia 


Huerta de Valencia 
“Huerta” of Valencia 


Playa de Valencia 


Playa de Valencia 
[134] 














231 Playa de Valencia 
232 Playa de Valencia 
233 Playa de Valencia 
234 Playa de Valencia 
235 Asturias 


236 Playa de Valencia 


237 Mujeres jugando 
Women playing 


238 Playa de Valencia 
239 Playa de Valencia 
240 Playa de Valencia 


241 Playa de Valencia 
[136] 





242 


Mercado de Leon 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Asturias 

Leon 

Asturias 

Javea 

Asturias 

Leon 


Asturias 


[138] 





254 
255 
256 
257 
258 
259 
260 
261 
262 
263 
264 


265 


Asturias 

Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Asturias 

Leon 

Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Leon 

Playa de Valencia 
Asturias 


Galicia 


[ 140] 





266 


275 


277 


Malvarrosa 
Malvarrosa Beach, Valencia 


Javea 

Biarritz 

Puerto de Javea 

La Concha, San Sebastian 
San Sebastian 

San Sebastian 

Playa de Valencia 

Playa de Valencia 

Playa de Valencia 

Playa de Valencia 


Playa de Valencia 
[1427 








278 
279 
280 


281 


282 


283 - 


284 


285 
286 
287 


288 


Lavanderas 
Washerwomen 


San Sebastian 
Playa de Valencia 
San Sebastian 
San Sebastian 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


E] tio Pancha 


Uncle Pancha 


Sefior Garcia 
The father-in-law of Sefior Sorolla 


Nifio desnudo, Granja 
Boy nude, La Granja 


Sefiora de Sorolla (negro) 
Sefiora de Sorolla in black 


[1457] 


289 


290 


291 


292 


293 


204 


295 


2096 


297 


Excelentisimo 


Sefior Duque de Alba 
Grande de Espafia 


Madre (Sefiora de Sorolla) 
_ Mother (Sefiora de Sorolla) 


Corriendo por la playa 
Running along the beach 


Después del bafio 
After the bath 


Paseo del Faro, Biarritz 
Lighthouse Walk, Biarritz 


Nifio en la playa 


_ Little boy on the beach 


Cabo de San Antonio, Javea 
Cape San Antonio, Javea 


Excelentisimo 


Sefior Conde de Villagonzalo 
The Count de Villagonzalo 


Nifio en el mar 
- Boy in the sea © 


[146 ] 











298 
299 
300 
301 
302 
303 
304 
305 


306 


Ninos en la playa 
Children on the beach 


Barcas valencianas 
Valencian boats 


El hermano pequefio 
The little brother 


Ninos en el mar 
Children in the sea 


Naranjal, Alcira 
Orange-grove, Alcira 


Al agua 
At the water 


Nifio en la playa 
Little boy on the beach 


Calle de naranjos 
Street of orange-trees 


Jugando en el agua 
Playing in the water 


[148] 




















3097 


310 


311 


312 


313 


314 


Playa de Valencia (Luz de la mafiana) 
Beach of Valencia by morning light 


Salida del bafio 
Coming out of the bath 


El nieto 
The grandson 


Alegria del agua 
Water joy 


Sobre la arena 
On the sand 


D. Francisco Acebal 
Man of letters 


Excelentisimo 


Sefior D. Marcelino Menéndez y Pelayo 

The most eminent living scholar of Spain. Born at 
Santander, Nov. 3, 1856, at the age of 22 he became 
a professor in the University of Madrid, and when 
25 was admitted to the Spanish Academy. After 
more than twenty years’ service he resigned his 
professorship to become Director of the National 


Library. 


Excelentisimo 
Sefior D. Aureliano de Beruete 


An eminent historian and critic of art, especially 


distinguished for his work on Velazquez. 


[150 ] 


315 


316 


317 


318 


319 


320 


321 


322 


323 


324 


Excelentisimo 


Sefior Marqués de Viana 
Grande de Espafia 


Playa de Valencia 
Senor Granzon 


Toros que se preparan para sacar las 


barcas de pesca, Valencia 
Oxen ready to beach fishing-boats, Valencia 
Called in England “Beaching the Boat” 


Nifios en el mar 
Children in the sea 


Mar (Efecto de la mafiana) 
Sea (Morning effect) 


Barca pescadora 
Fishing-boat 


Velas en el mar 
Sails at sea 


Vuelta de la pesca 
Return from fishing 


Barcas en la arena 
Boats on the sand 


[1st J 


325 


326 


327 


328 


329 


330 


334 


Estudio de barcas 
Study of boats 


Barcas pescadoras 
Fishing-boats 


Barcas 
Boats 


Nifios en la orilla 
Children on the beach 


Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


Redes a secar 
Nets drying 


Empujando la barca 
Shoving off the boat 


[152] 


300 


336 


337 
338 
339 


340 


341 


342 


343 


344 


Playa de Valencia 


Adelfas 
Rose-bays 


Playa de Valencia 


Playa de Valencia 
Playa de Valencia 


Leoneses 
Leonese peasants 


Al bafio 
At the bath 


Tdilio en el mar 
Sea idyl 


La nietecita 
The little granddaughter 


Senor D. Manuel B. Cossio 
Director of the Instituto Pedagégico, Madrid, and 
author of “El Greco” 
(Acquired by the Hispanic Society of America) 


[153] 


345 


346 


347 


348 


349 


350 


Los pimientos 


The peppers 
(Acquired by the Hispanic Society of America) 


Excelentisimo 


Sefior D. Raimundo de Madrazo 
Descendant and kinsman of painters, and himself 
an eminent portrait-painter 


Excelentisimo 
Sefior D. Alejandro Pidal y Mon 


Statesman and man of letters 


Excelentisima 


Sefiora de Sorolla de mantilla espafiola 
Sefiora de Sorolla in Spanish mantilla 


Mis hijas, Elena y Maria a caballo con los 


trajes valencianos de 1808 
My daughters, Helen and Maria on horseback in 
Valencian costumes of 1808, the year of the out- 
break of the War for Independence against 
Napoleon 


Triste Herencia 
Sad Inheritance 
(See p. 20 of Introduction) 


[154] 




















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Child after his bath 
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